On The Road
by feralpixc
Summary: Dark, kind of angsty drabble about Dean and Sam. No actual storyline. The boys are driving. Really, that's it.


Disclaimer: I don't own the Winchesters, Supernatural, or any ounce of sanity - thank you.

AN: Just a oneshot that snapped at my brain and I had to get out. Review if you like.

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On the road nothing needs to be said between you. The two of you have been together far too long, fallen into a routine that is far too stable, for you to have to fill every moment in time with empty words. If you pretend there isn't a void, no one is any the wiser.

If he needs to say something, he will. Same for you. Nothing is said.

So all there is between you now is the darkness of the night and the long, endless strip of white-striped black, reaching forever, but never touching the sprinklings of brave stars and the occasional ship in the night – a semi, maybe, or another car with sleepless passengers, driving past with steady yellow eyes.

The routine dictates that the third time he pushes over the line, and the vibrations run through your bodies, accompanied by loud bug warnings and a jerk of the hands on the wheel and his head on his neck, you'll stop. You'll pull over to a motel if there's one close enough, or you'll stop on the shoulder of the road if there isn't, and you'll sleep. Or fake sleep, whatever comes.

It happens, and it's the third time, so he pulls over. You're too far away from a motel, there's not even a nameless one with barely-there sheets and carpeting, and you feel kind of thankful you don't have to struggle through a theme again. The duck hunting one, or maybe the homemaker with flowers and frilly, dusty curtains. You could almost smile, but a frown stretches across your features instead. They come far too often for comfort, these days.

He always sleeps with his head tilted back, vulnerable line of his neck exposed to your eyes, Adam's apple bobbing as he yawns and swallows and shifts on the seat, jostling for the better position. He's always open to to you, not that he knows that. He thinks he's a closed book; indecipherable words sprawled on thick pages.

You know he thinks you don't really care.

When those long dark lashes flutter, you know he's asleep, dreaming his dreams. Maybe his nightmares. He never did tell you. The only dreams you talk about are yours, and that's because they're true, and painful, and have to be said. Have to be shared. To save lives.

Because that's what you do.

Everyday, all day, you saved lives. And that was important, it was different, and fated, and special. Or it used to be, when your destiny didn't swing in the balance, a pendulum swaying back and forth, threatening all at once to fall on a side. You were on the outside, watching, trying to jostle the clock so it'd fall on the right side, the good side – trying to force the outcome.

You saved lives. Who saved yours?

You often find yourself wondering this, the door making creases in your shoulder blades, quiet sound of his breath passing through pink lips filling the car, the light brown leather of the ceiling grey, white, blue to your eyes in the moonlight. You think about it when you know he's not watching you, for once. Watching over you, it's his job, always has been. He thinks he's going to save you, and you pray that he can, although you're afraid, and he's afraid, that he can't. So he tries, and you try, but sometimes you just need this, the silent, non-expectation. You aren't held under anyone's gaze now, no one's waiting for you to slip up and over and under. No one needs you, when you're like this.

No one has plans for you, when you're here, just like this.

Or you can pretend they don't, which is just as good.

When he wakes up, you pretend you've slept, and he pretends he believes you, and he drives again. The scenery melts past in all its familiar loops of country side, town, country side, town, and the music plays on an endless continuum, filling your brain.

On the road, nothing needs to be said between you. But sometimes you don't care what you need; you care about what you _want_. You want to say a million things, pointless things, stupid things. You want to say things that mean something, that mean nothing; you just want to talk. Maybe about everything, maybe about anything. Demons, dads, destinies, dark sides, him – all the D's your head can think of. You don't want to have to see through him, you don't want to have to need to.

But you don't talk about any of this, you push it back, like you know he does, and you look out the windshield and the window and you fake sleep some more.

On the road, nothing needs to be said between you.

And nothing is.


End file.
